


Waiting For A Friend

by caledonian



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, dub con, graphic themes !!!, i'm new at this so sorry, replaced, tons of people commented about my lack of sufficient tags, unwanted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8289539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caledonian/pseuds/caledonian
Summary: After the events of the accords, things manage to become less strained between the Avengers. In a last ditch attempt for some kind of family, Steve brings Bucky back to the tower and watches as he becomes well-acquainted with his new friends. Maybe too well-acquainted. But that's what he wanted, right?He just wants everyone to be happy. Even if that means he isn't.





	1. This Room Is Like A Prison Cell

As soon as he brought Bucky back to the tower, he knew it was over.  
  
It was okay. It didn’t come as a surprise to him, or anything. Not that that made it hurt less but…well, at least it wasn’t a shock.  
  
Despite the…scuffle regarding the Accords, the Avengers managed to sort themselves back into something resembling a family. There had been some stiffness for a while; certain people kept to their floors for a couple months, but gradually, nights were filled with movies in the penthouse and mornings had everybody gathered around the kitchen island, grunting into their coffees.  
Surprisingly, Tony didn’t hold anything against Bucky. He seemed to accept what had happened _wasn’t Bucky’s fault,_ even stretching as far as to offer to sort Bucky’s lack-of-limb issue.  
“It’ll be even better than HYDRA’s,” he swore, spooning cereal into his mouth. “Faster reflexes, greater strength—and hey, I’ve even managed to work in some sensors so you can, y’know, actually feel it.” At Bucky’s speechless expression, Tony just shrugged and beamed, “Don’t say I don’t do anything for you, Tinman.”  
  
And Steve had hung back when Tony slung an arm around his best friends’ shoulder to guide him to the lab, trying to smile at the disappearing sound of their laughter.  
Everyone loved Bucky. After the whole ‘ _Sorry I tried to kill you’_ conversation was out of the way, the Avengers found it extremely difficult to _not_ love him. With therapy—from both a professional and Wanda with her freaky abilities—he seemed to be improving with each passing day. Natasha and Clint adored him because he was a great sparring partner. Vision liked him as a chess partner because for some bizarre reason, amongst being attractive, smart and ridiculously good with girls, Bucky was a _master_ at chess. He seemed to know exactly what to talk about with Bruce; the quiet doctor was reluctant to ask him anything about his serum and how it differed to Steve’s, but Bucky was only all too keen to give him what he wanted. Thor, once he finally got back from Asgard, instantly fell into an easy friendship with the metal-armed assassin purely on the basis he had “muscles to challenge my own.”  
  
Wanda…well, everyone mentioned how close she and Bucky were. They were often found cuddled up, with her slender fingers combing through his hair and him mumbling quietly to her. Steve had walked in on them more than anybody, and the guilt he felt at Bucky’s flinch at the intrusion almost overwhelmed him.  
Sam was the hardest to be won over. He held his grudge for the longest—“He broke my _wings,_ Steve!”—but even he caved when Bucky raced past Steve on their morning run, muttering, “On your left.”  
  
They’d had to lift Sam out of a ditch, he was laughing that hard.  
  
And Steve knew he should be happy. Hell, he _was_ happy. He got what he wanted; Bucky, his best friend since his diaper days, back in his life, and not only that, _with his new family._ Watching them laugh and tease one another in the living room while he cooked dinner in the kitchen made his chest feel tight. He loved everybody in the tower almost too much. His heart hurt every time he heard Thor crack a joke, or saw Clint swoop Sam into a rib-crushing hug.  
  
But it hurt just that bit harder because he wasn’t a part of it.  
  
In all fairness, it was probably his fault. He didn’t really consider himself an easy person to live with; too stubborn, too old, too…too _different._ In hindsight, he didn’t have much to offer a team, never mind a family. And that’s what the Avengers were—even after everything, they were still a family.  
  
But Steve…he was always an outsider. And he didn’t blame anyone for that other than himself.  
  
He started looking for somewhere else to stay after Clint forgot about their morning workout for the fifth time. Steve had been on his way to the gym when Clint barrelled past, decked out in what everybody knew as his ‘vent pyjamas.’  
  
“Hey, uh, weren’t we supposed to—“  
  
Clint swung round, beaming. “Hey, man, you seen Buck? We’re watching the entire Star Wars trilogy today and we need to start it at precisely the right moment if we’re gonna get it finished before going out to eat tonight.”  
  
Steve forced down the sinking feeling in his chest and weakly smiled. “I think he’s taking a shower, but he could be—“  
  
But Clint was on his phone, already turning away to catch the lift as he called, “Yeah, thanks, Steve!”  
  
The heaviness in his ribcage didn’t go away. If anything it seemed to grow, wrapping spindly fingers around his bones, making him feel tired in a way he hadn’t since before the serum. It was the stiffness of illness, of weariness, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.  
  
So he decided a change of scenery might be the way forward. Or, at least that’s what he told himself. At night, when he was under the duvet and not sleeping, he knew it was so he could get out of their hair. He didn’t want this…this _weight_ hurting anyone else. He knew he wasn’t needed, and maybe by moving out, they’d realise he’d done them a massive favour.  
  
(Steve liked to pretend he hadn’t overheard Tony muttering to Bruce about how its, “Damn time he left the tower—hell, the team. It’d do everybody a world of good.”)  
He bought an apartment about thirty minutes away from the tower, so at least if they needed him, he’d be there. All of his belongings were packed within a single morning, and he joined the rest of the team for a final breakfast. Not that they knew that, of course. His house hunting had been a secret, and he wanted to slip away with as little drama as possible.  
  
The kitchen was already a commotion by the time he got there. Vision stood at the stove, frowning down at the frying pan that seemed to prefer spitting out the bacon rather than cooking it. Wanda sat up on the counter beside him, helpfully mopping up the greasy spittle. Tony slumped at the head of the island; from the way his forehead pressed to the cool countertop and the way his shoulders moved rhythmically, Steve guessed he was sleeping for the first time in days. That, and the fact he hadn’t moved even though Clint and Sam were doodling dirty pictures on his bare shoulders.  
  
Natasha flicked through her phone, still seeming threatening even in her pale pink dressing gown. Bruce sat beside her, glasses pushed up into his tangled mess of hair, scanning through the newspaper.  
  
The fact Peter sat next to Bucky, discussing the difficulty of getting any member of the female species to speak to him, gave Steve the hint that, _oh—it’s Saturday.  
_ He was the first to look up, and his face broke into a smile so big that—yep, there goes the panging in Steve’s chest again.  
  
“Hey, Cap!” Peter greeted excitedly. Bucky glanced up, barely sending Steve a smile, before regaining the kid’s attention again with fool-proof ways of getting a girl to talk to you.  
  
And there it was.  
  
Worse than anything—worse than being forgotten about during takeaway nights, worse than being ignored during meals, worse than being left on the only single seat in the sitting area, worse than being abandoned during workouts, worse than being the _loner_ of the team—was how Bucky treated him.  
  
He did understand it. Really, he did. He was a painful reminder of the past, of the old ways, of the old _Bucky._ Because neither of them were the same anymore and both of them knew it. And that was _okay._ But as soon as Steve moved Bucky into the tower, it was almost as though he was the new Steve, upgraded. Captain America 2.0.  
Everyone else was more important than Steve. Any attempt to _talk_ to Bucky ended in, “Oh, sorry, I’ve got to go meet Nat,” or “Tony’s wanting to tinker with my arm. You know how he is.”  
  
Steve got it. He wasn’t anyone important. He never had been. It took serum and a lot of PR to get him anywhere.  
  
But for Bucky—his childhood best friend, the guy who’d made him laugh when he was sick, the same boy who’d dragged him away from fights when it was almost certain he was going to die—to ignore him…it just added to the empty feeling that seemed to live inside Steve nowadays.  
  
He’d meant to tell them all at breakfast that he was leaving. But as he looked around, at Peter snorting orange juice out his nose, Vision burning his third portion of bacon, and Tony waking up and grabbing the spare Sharpie to beginning illustrating the back of his hand with an extremely hairy penis—he realised he couldn’t.  
He couldn’t do that to them. They were all finally in a place of content, of happiness, and just because Steve wasn’t didn’t mean he had to drag them all down with them.  
So he ate his burnt breakfast, listened to everyone else instead of talking (because nobody asked him anything anyway) and disappeared just before Sam began talking about the wet dream he’d had about the Hulk the previous night.  
  
Just before the elevator doors shut, Steve saw them all burst into laughter at the droopy balls Sam had lovingly drawn onto Tony’s neck. His face twitched into a smile, and though it was sad, it was still a smile.  
  
But nobody saw.

*

The new apartment had been dirt cheap, mostly because he just didn’t care anymore. The only reason he’d bought it was because he didn’t want anyone seeing a homeless Cap on the sidewalk. Wouldn’t that just be a great moral booster.  
  
He’d escaped the tower with only Vision seeing him. Making the guy promise not to tell anyone was easier than he thought it would be, but he supposed Vision was reluctant to go against anyone’s demads.

Steve tried to force himself to unpack, but the realisation that he probably wouldn’t be here for long only coerced him into kicking the boxes into a corner. His room did have a bed, but from the looks of it, even pre-serum him lying on it would’ve made it collapse.  
  
He stared at it, eyes hooded, and leaned his temple against the rotting doorframe.  
  
The entire apartment felt so, so empty, but then he supposed it fitted him. There was no loud music, or Thor’s booming voice, or Tony’s annoying drilling to keep him company.  
  
Just silence.  
  
Nobody called him. Even after a week, nobody had stopped by, or even sent him a text to check if he was okay. After a long while thinking, he’d left a note back in his kitchen at the tower with his new address on it. He’d put it atop the bin so it’d be easy for someone to simply throw it out if they didn’t want it.  
  
The most contact he had after leaving was one night when he decided to visit the local bar. Checking he had his keys, he slugged down the steps to the ground floor of the building and pushed out into the icy night air.  
  
He’d barely taken a step when someone whispered, “ _Rodgers,_ ” and something hard whacked him over the head.  
  
He couldn’t remember hitting the ground.

*

For a while, he drifted.  
  
Steve knew he was strapped to a table tight enough for the skin of his wrists to be screaming. He knew the room was too dark to see even a few metres in front of him. Head pounding, he parted cracked lips and rasped, “ _He-l—“  
  
_ But it was pointless. Nobody was coming to him, he was _alone_ —  
  
No. The Avengers would come, they’d save him. They…they _had_ to, right?  Even if they didn’t want him around, they still had to…they’d still save him from—  
  
He swallowed, but his throat was barely able to contract. The entire world blurred right in front of him, and he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be human.

 

*

  
Months passed. He’d originally thought it’d been years—it _felt_ like years—but the small window near the ceiling told him otherwise. Rotting leaves had flattened themselves to the glass, followed by a constant snowfall that shut out the light for a good while. It was only now beginning to thaw, with the whiteness disappearing faster each day.  
But none of that mattered to Steve.  
  
Brock liked to visit him every few weeks. Pulled up a chair next to the table, and just sat. He was the only HYDRA agent who refused to touch him. Rumlow didn’t like to hit, or leave physical marks.  
  
No. They’d brought Brock in for a very specific reason.  
  
“Do you ever wonder why you’re still here, Steve? Why nobody’s come to save you?” He asked, leaning back in the seat. Dark eyes swung to settle on Steve’s prostrate figure, and a low chuckle filled the room. “Ah. Clearly you do.  
  
“Which one do you feel most betrayed by, hm? Tony? With all his money and power and might—even with all of that, he still hasn’t managed to find you.” The agent leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his pointed chin. A broad smile curled his lips. “No, maybe not. You always seemed to have a bit of a bone to pick with him.”  
  
Steve stayed silent. He’d learned that was best.  
  
With a sharp inhale, Brock shook his head and sighed, “No, no, not Stark. Natasha, maybe? The two of you got pretty close during Insight.”  
  
_Please. Please just kill me and get it over with.  
  
_ “Nah, Romanoff’s a spy,” he concluded. “She wouldn’t get close enough for you to depend on her completely. And none of the others—Banner, Thor, Barton—none of them are your besties. Family, sure…but they don’t know you inside out.” Brock snorted. “Christ, Parker’s eager to, but he’s just a kid.”  
  
_So was I. A dumb kid who thought experimentation was his only option to stay alive past his twenties.  
  
_ Rumlow hummed lowly, tracing a tanned finger over Steve’s slack bicep. His long lashes brushed his cheeks as he murmured, “And that just leaves Barnes…of course it’d be Barnes.”  
  
Steve shivered, a weak sound coming from his throat—and Brock fucking _grinned.  
_  
The change was wolfish, predatory. Because it wasn’t a _surprise_ to him; he’d walked into the room knowing exactly what Steve’s soft spots were and exactly how to hit them. He _knew_ how betrayed Steve felt by Bucky, the one person he thought he could count on. The one person he’d thought cared.  
  
Brock huffed out a laugh. “Aw, Steve. When is it gonna _click_ for you? Nobody. Cares. Hell, you’ve been gone for nearly eleven months and you wanna see what your buddies have been up to?”  
  
Eleven months? He’d been here _eleven months_?  
  
The agent swivelled to grab something and aimed it at the corner of the room. Steve barely had enough energy to flicker his eyes over to it. HYDRA only fed him when it was necessary or when they remembered to, and even then it was thin, watery gruel that dribbled out of his loose mouth.  
  
If only the world could see what had become of Captain America.  
  
He could barely swallow the rising sob at the fact they never would.  
  
The TV screen flickered to life. A news channel popped up; a woman tapped her sheets against the desk before starting with, “ _Happy New Year to everyone watching and welcome to 2016. The top news stories tonight—“  
  
_ A story about the rise in American stock markets. A story about something to do with the government. Steve couldn’t keep himself focused long enough to actual care about what they were saying. He let his eyes slide shut.  
  
“ _Despite the lack of a certain team member, Tony Stark threw an enormous New Year’s Eve party last night in the Avengers penthouse—“  
  
_ Steve’s eyes didn’t open, but he could feel the warm, wetness of tears dampening his lashes.  
  
“ _Celebrities such as Beyoncé and Kanye West graced the scene, but perhaps the talk of the night was the announcement that Bucky Barnes and Wanda Maximoff are now in a relationship. Many noted the absence of Steve Rodgers, but the concern was apparently waved off. We wish the new couple well.”  
  
_ The TV flashed to black.  
  
The silence that flooded the room was painful. Everything they’d done to him—punched him, whipped him, electrocuted him, choked him, _fucked_ him—none of it could compare to this.  
  
Complete abandonment.  
  
“See, Cap? You did them a favour,” Brock cooed. “There’s nothing special about you. All anybody cares about is getting close to you so they can replicate the serum. Hey, like Stark said—everything special about you _came out of a bottle._ ”  
  
The edge was getting closer and closer and Steve could feel himself teetering off of it.  
  
“So, Rodgers, how ‘bout we skip to the end? To the questions you love so much?”  
  
Steve knew what was coming. Tears slipped clammily down his cheeks.  
  
Brock stood up, kicking the chair away. “Who are you?”  
  
His jaw struggled to move. “Steve…Steve…R…”  
  
“How old are you?”  
  
“Uh…I…”  
  
“Good, good boy,” Rumlow soothed. “And why haven’t you been saved?”  
  
Steve’s lip quivered and in one sentence, he sailed straight off into the deep end. This answer he knew.  
  
“Because I’m not worth saving.”  
  
The room flickered into darkness.


	2. I'm All By Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my first post on here, I actually got some comments and I'm so, so grateful guys because they were all so lovely. I really hope you're enjoying this; it was originally only supposed to be two chapters, but I'm considering maybe continuing? What can I say, I'm a sucker for sad Steve.

Tony stared at the computer screen. Then blinked. Then stared some more. Then blinked twice to clear his vision.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, pushing back in his chair to scrub at his eyes. Tonight, he’d been awake for thirty—no, pushing thirty-two hours now trying to find his missing Capsicle.

The tower was like a cemetery.

It’d been Parker who’d discovered Steve was missing.

He’d went to Steve’s level to talk about something—Tony didn’t know what, he wasn’t nerdy the same way they were—only to find an empty suite. All of Rogers’ shit was gone, along with any trace of the man. Peter had been too upset to go through the rest of his apartment, but Bucky was determined someone had to in case Steve had left a hint as to where he might’ve gone.

Natasha searched the suite and unsurprisingly, found nothing. The redhead refused to look the rest of the team in the eye as she told them, and Tony had a suspicion her eyes were just a bit wetter than she wanted them to be.

When Steve’s therapist came forward and disclosed that Cap had been on an almost unhealthy dose of anti-depressants and enough anxiety meds to knock out a bull, it came as a bit of a shock. The newer members to the team just thought Steve was a bit quiet. But to Tony, to Nat, to Sam, to Bucky—it was as though someone had lined them up and hit them with three monster trucks in a neat succession.

Of course they’d noticed it. Hell, they would’ve had to have been dead not to. Steve—the smiley, big blonde giant, stubborn but hard not to love—had suddenly been replaced by a gaunt, hollow soul.

Tony watched. Steve didn’t notice, but Tony watched. Perhaps for too long.

As the team grew bigger, things got a lot louder. Tony and Natasha easily adapted, and god knows Clint could speak up for himself. But Steve…Steve seemed to take it personally. Someone spoke over him, he automatically shut down. Those colossal shoulders would hunch in, and he would listen to whoever had interrupted him with a gentle, self-deprecating smile.

He started to get interrupted less, purely because he started speaking less.

Tony observed, but he couldn’t quite say when Steve stopped speaking completely.

The guilt was almost palpable in the air. They hadn’t even noticed Steve was missing for at least a month and a half; not until a redirected letter had come in declaring Steve’s rent was due. Wanda had dropped by his new apartment, and came back with tears running down her face, sobbing that nobody had seen Steve in weeks.

The search had been going on for nearly a year now. The longer it went on, the deeper Tony dug himself. He just wanted to find Steve, he wanted him home. The thought that Steve felt in any way unwanted only made everybody in the team search harder.

The elevator doors opened and Bucky, dressed in a wife beater and black boxers, emerged with a hand dug deep in his greasy brown tresses. He saw Tony at the island, scrolling, and came over to open the fridge.

“Found anything?”

“Yeah, actually.” Tony slowly spun to face him. “I found him, swooped in and snatched him right up—he’s taking a shower right now, in fact—“

“Fuck you. Really, Stark, fuck you.”

Tony hopped up. He pushed past Bucky to grab a bottle of water and leaned against the worktop, unscrewing the lid. “You heard anything?”

Bucky snorted, but the sound just seemed tired. “’Course not. I’m neither a technological genius nor a particularly talented spy.” A silence fell. He reached up to scrub tiredly at his eyes, pushing back a lank strand of hair. “I just…I just want to find him, Tony. He’s all I’ve ever had.”

Tony searched deep—really, really deep—to try and find an appropriate jibe to comeback with, to detour this conversation from turning into something emotional, but the raw sadness in Barnes’ face forced him to stop.

"We'll find him, Tee. I want to just as much as you."

A flicker of amusement crossed Bucky's weary face. Tony had stopped calling him Bucky fairly early on, and had never even bothered attempting to call him James. Instead, he'd christened the assassin with a shortened version of 'amputee,' which many of their teammates found distasteful--Bucky just found it funny.

Tony tried to remember what Steve had thought of it, but the pit in his stomach deepened when he realised Steve hadn't voiced his opinion on anything he'd done. Not for a long time.

He watched with narrowed eyes as Bucky cupped his chin in his flesh hand. "What was going on with you two golden oldies anyway?"  
  
Bucky cocked a brow. "How do you mean?"  
  
Tony shrugged listlessly, drawing invisible circles on the worktop. "I dunno…I just…I know I'm not the only one who thought you and Rogers were closer than besties."  
  
Immediately, Bucky's face shut down. His expression hardened, and, whether subconsciously or not, reached up with his flesh hand to cup his busted shoulder socket. Tony hadn't quite finished the new arm yet--it still needed a few tweaks (namely a way to stop it randomly sticking up its middle finger--although he had a stirring feeling Clint had persuaded Vision into doing that)--but Bucky seemed to care about his missing limb less and less everyday. Perhaps it made him feel less like a monster. That's where he and Tony differed. Where Bucky hated the machinery that made him more than human, Tony craved it. He missed the arc reactor in his chest (and, okay, a part of him is glad it's out considering he wasn't that far away from dying, but that's not the point.) He built himself a suit out of machinery, for fucks sake.

In the shared darkness of the kitchen, Tony absently wondered where that left him. A man or a monster?

"We weren't together, but…I wanted us to be. I think."

Tony perked up.

Bucky sunk into a stool, fingers scratching at his temple. He seemed determined to avoid Tony's curious gaze as he mumbled, "It's foggy. Like, to the point where I'm not sure if its real or if…if they put it there." Bucky gritted his teeth. A part of Tony wanted to go to bed, tell Bucky he didn't need to share anything--but another part, a bigger part, pleaded to stay put.

"We were oddly close as kids. Steve's ma was always so grateful I was around. Someone to look out for him, keep him on the straight and narrow." He huffed a laugh. "That was a near impossible task in itself. The little shit couldn't stop himself if he heard the call of injustice."

Tony didn't even have to struggle to imagine that. A small, skinny Steve, scrapping his way through twentieth century Brooklyn.

"I went on a lot of dates. A lot. But they always felt…I dunno, hollow. Like I was putting on an act, but had no idea who for. But the moment I went back home to our dingy little apartment and saw his dumbass grinning at me…" Bucky's mouth quirked, and for a split second, it was like staring at a new man. "I felt like I was home."

A flash of Pepper went through Tony's mind--he pushed it away with a wince.

Then, Bucky shrugged, face dropping. "And then we went to war. I could never get him alone. And by that time, I knew how I felt. I knew I loved him."

The ease of which he used the term love shouldn't of shocked Tony, but it did. When he first heard of the soldier, he struggled to imagine him having any sort of emotion, never mind love. But listening to Bucky now, to the man behind the mask, it was clearer than anything.

Bucky loved Steve. Bucky was in love with Steve.

"I couldn't tell him, obviously. I did try to--one night at a bar, just after he rescued me. I was still dumbed down from Zola's work, so I think I just thought fuck it. And just as I opened my mouth--" He clicked his fingers. "Peggy Carter walked in. Practically Steve Rogers' wet dream--a beautiful, independent woman who knew how to fight for herself. I knew then, it was a lost cause. Because Steve had exactly what he needed right there in front of him--his ticket to a family, kids, stability. Who the hell was I to ruin it for him?"

Nope. That was it. The pain in Bucky's voice matched his twisted expression, and Tony breathed, "But it's different now, Tee. Peggy's gone, the world's different. LGBT, man. It's a thing."

Bucky shook his head. "I know, but that doesn't matter. He's got Sharon. A perfect little mini-Peggy. How can I not look at this as though it's Steve's second chance at life? Clearly he was meant to end up with a Carter. Just as God intended it." He pulled a tumbler and bottle of whiskey from the island's cabinet. The amber liquid sparkled as he tipped it soundlessly into the glass. "It doesn't matter how much science fucks with his life," he sighed, before tipping the drink back. "He's too good for God not to look out for him."

A silence fell. Then:

"That's why you were avoiding him? That's why he was so fucking upset all the time?"

Bucky's brow crinkled. "Excuse me?"

Incredulous, Tony dropped from the countertop and humourlessly huffed, "Ever since he brought you here, Steve's been fucking moping around, dragging his heels. He loves you back, asshole! He probably just thinks you're acting dickish towards him because you don't return his feelings! Jesus, it's not the 1930s, Bucky! Oh my God--"

Bucky looked vaguely traumatised. The tumbler clenched in his fist was crunching dangerously, and something in Tony was screaming, vintage! One of a kind! Part of a collection! But he couldn't find it in himself to listen.

A sickening whiteness filled Bucky's face and he choked, "You--really? You really think--"

"Of course! Of course I'm right! Look at all the evidence! I mean, not that I'm not usually right," he reigned himself in, calmly. "But, Christ, Bucky--if you two just got your heads out of your arses and maybe stuck them in each others, we wouldn't even be having this missing persons problem right now!"

Far beyond Bucky's head, the wide projection screen flickered to life. Tony rolled his eyes, yelling, "Not now, Friday! I told you, no Pornhub at three am anymore--"

"I--Sir," the A.I replied, sounding as panicked as artificial intelligence could. "Sir, it's not me. An exterior force is hacking into my system, I don't know how--"

Bucky leapt to his feet, and Tony grabbed his suit bracelets from the island. They hadn't gone wrong yet, and after being tossed out of a window by a demigod, he liked to appreciate them every now and then.  
The screen ran grey for a few moments; then, with a burst, shuddered into a scene. A chair stood under a pool of light. The background was hard to make out, but if Tony squinted, he could make out…a workshop? Somewhere with tools and machinery, anyway.

Off-camera, a few taps sounded, like boots hitting the floor.

"Friday," Tony breathed, eyes wide as he watched the feed. "Record all of this and trace it to its source."

"Already underway, sir."

Someone strode on screen. Behind him, Tony heard Bucky's breath catch in his throat.

"Rumlow."

The man, dressed head to toe in black, rucked up his trousers and slowly sat on the chair. His tongue ran under his top lip, and he folded a foot neatly over his knee. A pause, then, a chuckle.

"I'm told that you're still awake, Mr Stark, so I'll make this a quick one," he began. "My name is Brock Rumlow. I know the Asset is with you, and I'm sure he'd love a hello from me." Rumlow waved, beaming widely. Tony automatically reached back--he didn't know why, but when Bucky took it to grip, he felt slightly better.

"Short and sweet, eh, Stark? You're a smart man, so I'll cut to it," Rumlow drawled. "I have Cap."

Nobody breathed.

"We've had him for the past eleven months and wow, what a ride it's been. We've went through quite a range of techniques with him to try and extract the serum--ain't that right, boy?" Rumlow, distracted by something off-camera, whistled loudly. "Right, pretty boy? And you loved it all didn't you? The pain, the beatings, the fucking--"

"Fuck, I think I'm gonna puke," Bucky gagged lowly, but Tony just tightened his grip.

Rumlow glanced back to the camera. "I got a lot of it on tape. Just for you and your lucky team to look at."

The feed cut to video. A time ran at the bottom of the screen; six months after Steve had been taken. The Captain was strapped to a table, naked, bloodied, and almost unrecognisable. The familiar muscle had wasted away--I thought they said the serum wouldn’t let that happen, Tony panicked internally--leaving behind a hollow, bony Steve. He wasn't small, or malnourished; he just looked…like he was dying.   
  
A voice spoke gently--Rumlow, again. "Pretty boy--hey, Stevie, where are your friends, hm? Why haven't they come to get you?"

The usual fire Tony saw in Steve's eyes was missing. He just lay there, chapped mouth barely shifting, eyes rolling under hooded lids. Rumlow stroked a long hand over Steve's torso, cooing the question over and over until Steve whispered, "Busy…busy lives…deserve to be here…don't deserve them…"

"Good Stevie."

Tony couldn't move. What he was seeing--the person he was seeing--that wasn't Steve. It couldn't be. Not Captain America, the guy his dad wouldn't shut the fuck up about. Not the guy who challenged him, all those years ago, suited up and ready to fight an alien invasion with little more than a small blink of confusion. Not the guy who hugged his team members every night. Not the guy who stayed up all night when Nat had the flu, just so she wouldn't hurt herself by trying to get to the bathroom on her own.

But it was.

It was the guy who stopped speaking and nobody noticed. It was the guy who could barely stand his own unworthiness. It was the guy who thought moving out would make him less of an inconvenience to his family. It was the guy who believed he didn't deserve, or have, a family.

It was the guy who'd rather die than chuck his friends under the bus. Rather die than simply expect his 'busy' friends to do a little thing like come and save him.

Steve had waited. Steve had waited for a friend, for his family, to come save him, and yet they hadn't even known he was missing for nearly a month.

Tony could hardly blame Bucky when he doubled over and threw up into the waste bin.

The video jumped. Last week.

Captain America didn't exist anymore. Steve barely existed anymore.

Prominent bones grated against the unforgiving table surface. Dark eyes rolled in even darker sockets. His skin was covered in a thick layer of sweaty grime. The straps around his wrists and ankles had been pulled even tighter, cutting in far enough to draw blood. His pale inner thighs were streaked with--fuck--dried blood, and something white and gloopy.

Tony had to fight to keep his own stomach calm.

The feed returned. Rumlow chuckled, crossing his arms behind his head as he called, "We were trying to reverse the serum, but its impossible. It's just wasting resources we don't really have. And frankly, the men are getting bored of their fuck-toy."

"Sir, your heart rate is increasing dangerously--"

"Enough, Friday," Tony gritted out.

"So," Rumlow hummed. "We're going for a good, ol' fashioned ransom. Seventy million. We'd go for more, but honestly?" He laughed, bright and cheerful. "He ain't gonna last the week, Stark. He's a dead man. The best part is, he wasn't even worth it. We wanted Captain America, and all we got was pathetic little Steven Rogers, wailing about his friends and crying while he's got a dick inside of him."

Rumlow moved as to get up, but stopped himself. "Oh, actually, before I forget--I presume you've got that freaky AI tracking where we are, so I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the money where you find him." His mouth spread in a wide smile. "I really wanted to give him back to you with a gift, so we tried to wipe you all from his memory. It would've stopped the crying for sure, which would've made my life a hell of a lot easier." Hi shoulders lifted, dropped. "But it wouldn't work. He refused to forget. But I just thought it wouldn't be very nice of me to pack him off without a leaving present. You'll find it when you get here. Just so you're prepared, here's a hint--we finally found a way to make him stop crying."

The feed dropped, and instantly, Friday gingerly reported, "I've located Captain Rogers' position, sir. He's…he's only four blocks away, in Gregory's abandoned doll factory."

Four blocks. Four blocks away. This entire time…Tony could hardly get around the strangled feeling in his throat. While they'd been going through the motions of a fucking New Years Eve party--one that Fury had forced them to have, on the premise he'd recruit more people on the Steve-where-the-fuck-are-you search--and, Jesus, allowing a fake relationship to blossom in the media because they'd been too preoccupied to clean it up--

Bucky had hugged Wanda during the party. Once. And it was nothing more than brotherly. She'd been crying about Pietro, for Gods sake.

All that time and Steve had been fucking four blocks away, begging to die--

Tony spun and his own stomach's contents joined Bucky's in the waste bin.

"Friday," he garbled, spitting out the last of the bile. "Wake the team. We need to go get Steve. We need to go now."

*

Steve dreamed a lot.

It took significantly less energy than being awake. Made him feel better, too. Or…maybe it made him feel worse. He wasn't sure.

Dreams…they took him away from where he really was. He liked thinking he was pressed up close to Bucky, helping him with some crappy meal (because Buck couldn't cook for shit), instead of having his head kicked in. He liked believing he was laughing at the ridiculous movie Clint had brought for movie night, instead of shaking from hunger pains. He loved it when his dreams conjured up an illusion of Bucky saying that he loved him, instead of being rolled over onto his front and violated in every which way possible.

That was still his downfall, though. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop himself missing the team. It didn't matter how many times they put him in that chair and tried to electrocute the memories out of him--he couldn't stop himself from loving his makeshift family.

That had to stop, though. He never belonged with them. He tainted everything he touched, and made things uncomfortable when people desperately wanted him to leave, but obviously made them feel like they couldn't tell him.

He was a plague. Rumlow loved to tell him that. He was a disease. A sickness.

Steve knew that. He just hoped this particular disease would die out soon.

When he roused from his latest dream, one of Bucky pressing kisses behind his ear (stop it, Steve), he found himself alone. That wasn't uncommon--but the emptiness of the room was.

Everything had gone. The machines, the torture tools, hell, even the shelves. All of it was gone, apart from the table Steve hadn't moved from in nearly a year.

A garbled whisper escaped his lips. He forced himself not to cry, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Maybe they'd finally left him alone to die…decided he wasn't worth the ground he lay on…

"Steve!"

One eye popped open. That sounded weirdly like…

"Steve! Steve, it’s me! It's Bucky!"

He forced both eyes open, and found dark figures hovering over him. His weak vision struggled to make out faces, but the tugging in his heart was enough to let him know he knew these voices. This was his team. They were here, they'd come for him.

Which must mean--

"…de--ad…"

His eyes focused enough in the darkness for Bucky's expression of confusion to be seen. The brunette shook his head, gently whispering, "No, no, Steve, you're not dead. Stevie, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry we didn't come--"

"H-ave…to…b-be…oh-nly…s-see y-ou…in…dr-reams…"

Bucky's face crumpled and he panicked, "What's wrong with his speech? Why can't he talk properly?"

Pain radiated through Steve's body as someone draped a blanket over his open wounds, but it was little more than an acknowledgement. There was no longer any attachment to pain, no reaction or feeling. He knew he deserved it, and he was grateful that his team made sure he knew where he stood with them, even in heaven. He'd always be at the bottom of the pile, and beatings were simply part and parcel of that deal.

"Steve," someone else soothed. "Hey, spangled saviour. We're getting you out of here, okay? And you're not dead. You don't get to die on us."

Tony.

His face plate was still down, but Steve could hear the thickness of his voice. He absently wondered why Tony was crying…what could he possibly be crying about? Was the team safe?

"Buddy, could you do me a favour?" Tony leaned over him. Steve weakly cowered away from the light emanating from the suit, and Tony swore, shutting the armour down. The plate slid up, and Steve barely had time to notice the redness of his dark-circled eyes before Tony asked, "Could you open your mouth for me? Just want to check something, promise."

Steve cringed. He knew what happened when he opened his mouth. Someone's dick would be shoved in there, again and again until Steve either puked or swallowed the sour cum that followed. But this was Tony. He owed his friend, and this was the least he could do.

So he opened his mouth, ignoring the ache in his jaw as he did so.

Tony's breath caught and he hissed, "Shit."

"What? What's wrong?" Natasha hurried up behind Tony; her gaze fell on Steve, and her face instantly dropped.

Bucky glanced between the two, clearly not catching on. "What? Why are you looking at him like that?"

Tony had to swallow a few times, his tanned skin paling, before he choked out, "His tongue. They cut out his tongue."


	3. My God, Does This Feel Like Coming Home

" _At last, after nearly an entire year spent searching, Captain Steve Rogers has been found. Sources say he's been taken back to Tony Stark's tower in New York city, though many speculate he has, in actual fact, been relocated to the new Avengers compound, location unknown. I'm sure we all wish Mr Rogers a speedy recovery_ \--"

The channel muted.

"Mr Stark advises you to avoid watching reports regarding the Captain, Mr Barnes. He finds it…unwise. Unhelpful."

Bucky tongued at his chewed lip. "Vision, I know exactly what they're saying. It's hardly new information to me."

With a sigh, Vision came into view. Maybe under different circumstances, Bucky might've laughed; seeing the synthetic robot dressed in a pair of slacks and neatly ironed shirt still weirded Bucky out. The future was crazy.  
But now, it was nearly impossible to force anything other than mumbles out. The entire compound, for its sheer size, felt completely empty. Hollow corridors, echoing rooms. He knew Tony was here--the outrageously expensive car sitting outside could only belong to him. Wanda and Nat could be around somewhere, but he wasn't totally sure. Natasha liked to wander off by herself a lot and 'forget' to tell someone.  
  
Clint stayed as long as he could, but everyone could tell he was missing his kids. Wanda was the one to persuade him to leave.   
  
Thor had gone back to Asgard round about the ninth month of Steve's absence. It had quite obviously upset the god to go, but he'd promised to come back regularly to check on them. What 'regular' meant to someone who could live for five thousand years, Bucky had no idea. He liked Thor, though; he was the one to go to if the rest of the team were being too depressing for words. The blonde always had a smile for Bucky, inviting him to spar whenever the arguments in the penthouse got too much. Steve casually mentioned how close the two were, and only now did Bucky realise his friend was probably jealous. 

His stomach curdled.

Something closely resembling a wince flinched across Vision's face. "He's…been asking for you."

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Bucky sat up straight. He fought down the hope swelling his heart. "He has?"

"He doesn't often speak to me directly," Vision confirmed. "But when he does, he asks for you. Or, James, at least."

James. How informal. How un-Steve of him.

That's not fair, he chastised himself. Not after what he's been through.

Steve latched onto Wanda the moment he was taken to the compound. She could ease the nightmares, and the phantom stress headaches that followed. The only time she wasn't in his recovery room was when Natasha finally managed to drag her out for something menial, like food, or water.  
And since Wanda and Vision usually came as a package deal, Steve tolerated the gentle, synthetic man. Wanda was reluctant to share anything--she usually came out of the room, hands shaking and face pale--but Vision willingly shared as much as he could with the rest of the team. Bucky found himself with a new appreciation for him.  
Natasha visited a few times, but Steve refused to say more than a few words to her. Bucky cornered her after her fifth failed time; she'd shaken her head, shrugging listlessly. "I think HYDRA showed him their records of me. Maybe even all of us, from our worst times. I don't blame him for not wanting to talk."  
  
Originally, Bruce was banned from the recovery room. He tried time and time again to get Steve to allow him in, but he was only met with garbled shrieks if he stepped one foot in the door. However, once it was discovered Steve was refusing every doctor from outwith the facility, Wanda softly explained to him that he'd only get worse if they weren't allowed to send Bruce in.  
  
"He doesn't say anything other than 'yes' or 'no,' and that's only when I ask him questions about his health," Bruce sighed, clutching his Starkpad closer to his chest. "If he doesn't start acknowledging more than two people…I mean, one of which isn't even human--"  
  
Vision coughed.  
  
"Sorry," Bruce blushed, and back tracked, "Most of his physical injuries are healing. The broken bones, the bruised ribs, the sores, the tearing of the rectum--"  
  
Bucky blanched.  
  
Bruce shook his head, patting Bucky's ruined shoulder. "Sorry. Once I start talking medicine, I have to detach myself from my patient."  
  
"What about his mind?"  
  
"I.…" The doctor sighed, resettling his glasses. "Once Tony gets the prosthetic sorted, we need to start focusing on Steve's mental state. We've been letting him rest, speed up his physical recovery. His trauma's next to deal with."  
  
Nobody other than Bucky had been confused when strange gifts began appearing in Steve's room. Vision and Wanda spoke about it constantly. He won't let go of that warming blanket. Try and catch him using that new smoothie maker--I'm worried that's all he's eating. I don't know, does he really need three Starkpads?  
  
For a start, Bucky thought it was Stark. Half of the gifts were his stock, so it made sense. But Tony had seemed as baffled as him; Bucky caught him one morning, huddled over a group of coffee mugs, muttering calculations under his breath about how much new stock he needed to order in.  
  
It only clicked when he'd been in the shower, tilting his head back to wash his hair. His eyes squinted open, twitching against the suds--and he found himself staring at the vent.  
  
Clint.  
  
Thor hadn't been back to visit yet, but Bucky highly doubted it would be long before he did. Tony tried to explain the whole concept of Heimdall to him, but he'd tuned out round about, "He can see everything. Like, I'm not kidding, he can see you taking a dump."  
  
Sam was as unwelcome as he and Tony were. He'd escaped the room after ten minutes, holding his hands up in surrender and calling over his shoulder, "You know I do therapy for a living!"  
  
Fury visited once. There wasn't any yelling from either of them. He quietly closed the door behind him, nodded to Tony, and strode out of the compound.  
  
Neither Bucky nor Tony had stepped a foot in the door. Partly because they felt sick to the stomach each time they tried to, but mostly because Steve burst into tears at the mention of their names.  
  
Bucky tried--Christ, he really tried--not to let it get to him. Because, hey, for once, he wasn't the victim. But when Wanda mumbled about Steve not sleeping, choosing instead to watch the stars, or Vision made an offhand comment about Steve laughing for the first time, it stabbed a hole straight through Bucky's heart, because he wasn't a part of it.  
  
And it didn't take him long to realise this was exactly how Steve had felt.  
  
After that, he felt a lot worse.  
  
Tony hardly left his workshop. Pepper showed up, for the first time in months, bearing a holdall crammed full of stuff. At the team's curious stares, she shrugged in her designer suit and said, "Don't ask and don't worry. He absorbs negativity and thinks it's his fault. He's trying not to let on to you all, because, and I quote, he, "doesn't want people to feel sorry for him when Steve's in such a bad way.'"  
  
Bucky made a conscious attempt after that to visit the workshop at least every few days. He worried the animosity from before would still be there, but the engineer seemed genuinely relieved to see him. Especially when he brought food. Especially when he brought alcohol.  
  
Everyone avoided Steve's level after they realised it was Bucky's safe place. He didn't want to be intrusive, or seen to be snooping--but the comfort he found in the apartment made his chest feel loose in a way it hadn't for a long, long time. The kitchen cupboards were stuffed with tins and notebooks. The pillows of the sofa's pulled away to reveal handfuls of scrunched up paper balls. Elegant drawings lined the walls of Steve's bedroom, stuck on with blue tack rather than nails. Almost as though he felt the place wasn't his, wasn't quite…home.  
  
Maybe he was waiting for someone to make it home.   
  
Bucky didn't dare let himself think it was him.  
  
Weeks went by; Steve improved. The spirit of the team improved. Bucky didn't.  
  
He still got up in the morning. He still showered. He still worked out. He still socialised with the team. He still went out into neighbouring cities to window-shop.  
  
Nobody found anything strange in that.  
  
What a few of them did find strange, however, was the fact nobody ever saw Bucky eat.  
  
He skipped mealtimes. He avoided breakfast by working up a sweat at the gym. Movie nights had long since been abandoned, so he at least didn't have to force himself through the popcorn bowl anymore.  
  
He didn't purposely mean to stop eating. He just forgot to, mostly. Plus, it wasn't as though his stomach reminded him to eat; no, no, HYDRA knocked that straight out of him. They fed him liquids through an IV line for nearly seventy years, and it had taken a lot of conditioning to get his body used to solids again. Steve was the one to help him through that, promising that nobody thought he was a baby who couldn't do anything for himself.  
  
"Mr Barnes?"  
  
Bucky pulled out of his head long enough to nod at Vision. "So can I…can I go see him?"  
  
A flicker of apprehension twitched across Vision's face, but he cleared his throat and said, "If you feel as though you, too, are ready, then I think now would be ample time."  
  
After all this time…after weeks of not being able to go anywhere near him, and now he wants to speak? Bucky shook his head, but it wasn't like him to look a gift horse in the mouth.  
  
He plucked at his shabby, yellowing tank top and grunted, "Should I change first?"

  
"If that would make you more comfortable. In my opinion, I think the Captain may actually appreciate you looking slightly more casual than usual. It may make him feel more at ease."  
  
"Less like he's being interrogated, you mean," Bucky muttered as he got to his feet. His spine cracked loudly.  
  
Vision frowned. "Mr Barnes--"  
  
"Christ, Vis, just call me Bucky. James, if you really have to."  
  
"My apologies. Bucky, you are looking rather…"  
  
Bucky's eyebrows shot up, daring him. "Go on."  
  
But the robot closed his mouth. "Nothing. You had better go up. He's waiting."  
  


*

His one hand gripped the porcelain of the sink so hard it nearly cracked.  
  
Raising his head, he stared at himself as though he was seeing a stranger. Wild, panicked eyes, straggly, unwashed hair, skin as pale as the tiles behind him. Curls of chest hair (which he was growing purely because he could now) darkened the skin revealed by the baggy halter neck of the tank top as he bent forwards. The busted socket was hidden by a grey sleeve, shielding that ugly red star from the world.  
  
Shutting his eyes, he shut his mouth so violently, his teeth clacked.  
  
It's Steve. Just Steve. Christ, the kid you grew up with. The guy you had to drag out of every single alley lining 1920's Brooklyn. What the fuck are you so scared of?  
  
It wasn't Steve he was uneasy about. From what Wanda said, he was almost back to himself--even better, with all the therapy he was getting. He'd spoken about what he'd went through while kidnapped, even delving further back before that. The depression, the anxiety, the heartache. The ordeal with HYDRA had taken a long, long time to recover from, but Bucky knew first-hand how difficult that was.  
  
If that was it, Bucky could walk in there, apologise for ignoring him, and start laughing with his best friend as though nothing had happened.  
  
But it was so much more than that.  
  
First off, he'd have to explain what the fuck happened when Steve had taken him back to the tower. Why the hell he ignored him for months, why he completely, singularly isolated Steve from not only himself, but the rest of the team. And Bucky didn't know if that was something he was ready for.  
  
He huffed out a weak laugh; almost a hundred years old and he couldn't even tell the guy he'd grown up with he was in love with him.  
  
His heart stuttered in his chest. Moments like these, and he felt all one hundred of those years.  
  
Strictly speaking, he didn't have to tell Steve how he felt. He could make up some elaborate lie, tell him he'd just adapted wrongly to exposure to new people. Some shit like that. He'd figure something out.  
  
But then came the…the prosthetic.  
  
It was ridiculous. He had a metal arm, for fucks sake. Hardly something you see everybody with. And right now, it wasn't even on his fucking body. So why the hell could he not get to grips with Steve's?  
  
Tony showed it to Bucky first. He'd been sleeping, only to be woken by Tony shaking him violently, chocolate sauce smeared across his cheek.  
  
"Tee! Tee! Wake the fuck up! I've done it!"  
  
Bleary eyed and still not entirely sure if he wasn't dreaming, Bucky allowed himself to be led down to the workshop. Dummy waved at him from the corner as Tony shoved him over to one of the tables. A stand with an upright pole sat in the centre of the metal surface, proudly displaying…what the fuck was that?!  
  
"Tony...what--"  
  
"Steve's tongue," Tony beamed, exhaustion glittering in his eyes. "Full mobility. Detachable. Smooth. Which I'm sure you'll find out when he sticks it up your--"  
  
It was disgusting. Inhuman. Abnormal. A metal slither, longer than Bucky thought a tongue should be. Later on, Vision would pull up a diagram of just how far the tongue went down the throat, and Bucky would stare at the robot with a pained expression on his face.  
  
Plates separated to allow it to move efficiently. It looked like some kind of high-tech snake, wiggling about on the stand.  
Only when Tony made it flutter like it was preforming some extremely vulgar act did Bucky find his eyes rolling back into his head and his back hitting the floor.  
  
He'd sworn Tony to secrecy but the suggestive glances Clint liked to give him over breakfast suggested Stark hadn't quite kept his promise.   
  
Taking a steady breath, Bucky straightened and ran a hand through his hair. A bobble perched beside his toothbrush; he snagged it and tied his hair back into a loose bun. It was squint and greasy, but it was better than having the lank strands dangling in front of his face.  
  
With that, he gave himself a reassuring nod in the bathroom mirror and left.  
  


*

As he approached the recovery room, he overheard voices coming from Steve's closed door. He chewed at his lip nervously and sat on a waiting chair.  
  
"Seriously, man, everybody's missing you. Pretty sure Vision cries himself to sleep every night when you aren't there for dinner."  
  
Bucky smiled queasily at the sound of Sam's voice. Thank God he wasn't the only one Steve was permitting himself to see; Tony and Sam had been as equally worried as Bucky.  
  
Then, his heart swelled as Steve laughed, the sound warmer and more genuine than any he'd heard in almost two years.  
"I don't think his body can even make tears, Sam," he chuckled. "But I know, I miss you all too. Bruce thinks I can leave here in the next few days."  
  
Bucky perked up.  
  
Sam sounded equally surprised. "Woah, really? And do you want to?"  
  
"Definitely," Steve said, and it sounded so sure. "I hate being cooped up in here. I'm bored of being the target of sympathy."  
  
"That's never really been your style, has it? You preferred being the target of bullets."  
  
Bucky's heightened hearing had never been more of a blessing; the sound of material rubbing together fluttered to him, like Steve was shrugging. "Sure, but someone always has my back."  
  
"Hey, you know you'll always have me to cover you. And Wanda, and Nat, and Tony, and the rest of the team."  
  
Steve's breath caught and he mumbled, "Even Bucky?"  
  
"Especially Bucky."  
  
"Since when were you two besties?"  
  
Sam's voice turned steely. "Ever since we agreed you almost certainly have a death wish."  
  
Bucky bristled, ready to drag Sam out of there for being fucking insensitive--but Steve laughed again, and the tension drained from his muscles. He didn't have the energy to fight anyone, anyway, so maybe it was just as well Steve appreciated Sam's tactlessness.  
  
The door opened. Bucky stood quickly, steadying himself against the wall as his head spun dizzily. Huh. That's new.  
Sam grinned over his shoulder, turning to Bucky as he shut the door. A sparkle in his dark eyes lifted Bucky's spirits automatically.  
  
"He's...Jesus, he's better than he's ever been."  
  
Bucky frowned. "Really? Aren't we just…I dunno, getting ahead of ourselves?"  
  
Sam shook his head. "Trust me. Those doctors and therapists should get their pay, like, tripled." He jutted his chin toward the door and grinned, "You're up, Buckaroo."  
  
Watching Sam's disappearing frame, Bucky muttered, "Fucking nicknames," under his breath, before facing the door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his hand against the door and forced himself through.  
  
There was a pause; his eyes had to adapt to the dimness of the room, his lungs, to the heat clinging to him. Then:  
  
"Hey, Buck."


End file.
